


the self is not so weightless

by aldhafera



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fingering, M/M, Porn with Feelings, it's cuter than it sounds, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-18 23:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22601755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldhafera/pseuds/aldhafera
Summary: The two times Richard helps Henry unwind, and the time Henry returns the favour (and they unearth their feelings along the way).
Relationships: Richard Papen/Henry Winter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 171





	the self is not so weightless

_Nor whole and unbroken;_

_Remember the pact of our youth._

**I.**

Life wasn’t being fair on Henry; this much I knew. He never let anyone take care of him, but the dark circles around his eyes and the quiet sighs when he thought no one would hear were a dead giveaway. He was exhausted. 

“Richard, pour us a couple of glasses of Bourbon, if you’d be so kind.” Henry said, sitting down heavily on his bed. 

Henry had called me to his house to talk about something relating to the investigation into Bunny’s disappearance - he hadn’t said very much on the phone, but then again, he never did. When he called me the sun had already set, the last traces of Apollo’s journey through the sky painting it in vivid oranges and yellows. 

When I arrived, I was shocked to see the state my friend was in: the dishevelled hair, the sickly skin tone, and general unease written across his features. 

“Henry, are you okay?” I had as I had stepped in the door. I reached a careful hand up to his face, moving some of the curls away from his forehead with a gentle touch, almost so as to not startle him. He hadn’t shied away. 

“I’m - I’m fine.” Right. “Just a bit tired.” 

“Henry, you look as though you haven’t gotten a proper night’s rest in weeks.” The front door was still open, and a gentle breeze blew in, sending shivers down our spines. 

“Have you?” Henry rebuffed with a dry smile. “Has anyone, really?” 

_Touché._

I perhaps poured, not entirely by accident, a bit more bourbon than normal into each glass. Then again, we all drank copious amounts of alcohol, and if Henry noticed, he said nothing. We sat on his bed, cross-legged, and raised our glasses in silent cheer. 

“What did you want to talk about?” I asked. I didn’t want to break the silence, as it was clear that Henry did not really wish to discuss the matter, but he called me here for a reason, and we both wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. Bunny’s death and anything related to it tarnished everything it touched, corrupting even conversation like acid. 

“The police claim they’ve made headway. Somebody’s accounts of that night aren’t entirely consistent.” My throat closed up, the alcohol burning my tongue as it sat in my mouth and refused to go down. I forcefully swallowed, wincing at the pain. 

“And you think it might be mine?” I made no attempt to hide the tremor in my voice. I had wanted Bunny gone as much as any of us, and just as them, I refused to go to prison. My story was undeniably the most haphazard of the lot, so it was probably the least convincing. 

“I don’t know. They obviously weren’t going to tell me, but after I left the room, I overheard them through the door saying that someone wasn’t adding up. I got worried.” He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and breathed heavily. His tired eyes were focused on the bourbon he sloshed in his glass, the irises a darker shade of blue. “I think we should go over everyone’s alibis together.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

Henry frowned. “Why?” 

“I’m not saying recounting everyone’s alibis isn’t a good idea! We should definitely do that, just - not now.” I said, trying to appease him. I could tell he was jittery. This man needed to rest. “It’s late. You need to sleep.” 

Henry looked up from his glass and turned to me with a mix of annoyance and frustration in his eyes that would have made a sane man gulp. Henry hardly ever got agitated about anything. “Richard, you really are being most tiresome. Do you think I fail to sleep out of my own volition? Do you think that the nightmares that haunt me are of my design? Do you really believe I choose to toss and turn in bed every night?” He took a large swig of his drink. The pain in his voice was evident, and it struck every one of my heartstrings. This was almost a confession. He hadn’t told anybody else, I could tell, and this made the moment all the more intimate. “I try.” He said, after a long silence. His voice cracked. “I simply can’t.” 

I did not know what to say. I too was plagued by nightmares at first, but now my brain had found a way to keep those memories under lock and key (most of the time, anyway). Henry clearly hadn’t found a coping mechanism, but he doubtlessly was the one that thought on the issue the most, constantly planning our next move, constantly scheming. He didn’t just need physical respite - he needed a mental break as well. 

“Let me give you a massage.” I blurted out. The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them, and once they were out, I could not take them back. _A massage? Really Richard?_ I didn’t know what else I could do, as a hand on the shoulder or even a comforting hug wouldn’t have really been of much aid. 

“I - _what_?” It was Henry’s turn to raise a cynical eyebrow at me. 

I could feel myself heat up, and thanked God for the dim light in his room. I turned my eyes away from his. “I thought it might help you relax. You’re far too stressed.” 

I could faintly hear the cogs in Henry’s brain whirring as he pondered on my offer. Even though I had seen him and Francis touch in a more intimate way than friends would (if the kisses on foreheads and hand squeezes were anything to go by), and knew that they’d all definitely had some form of sex during their _bacchanal,_ I wondered if this was too much. I wasn’t best friends with anyone in the group _per se_ , but if I had to pick someone that was closest to me, I’d say Henry - whether or not the feeling was mutual I did not know. 

“Fine.” He said, breaking the silence. He had somehow, in the time of our rather brief conversation, managed to drink half his glass. Mine wasn’t faring too well either. 

He changed his position to sit with his back towards me, and I sat on my knees, taking a sip of bourbon and shaking my head. 

“It’ll-” God, I didn’t even know how to phrase this. “It’ll probably be easier if you take your shirt off.” 

I heard the hitch in Henry’s voice and thought I’d crossed another boundary. He diligently pulled his sweater off, flinging it to the edge of the bed. He then went about undoing his shirt buttons, and all the while, I just watched, something similar to trepidation pooling in my stomach, but I didn’t know why. It’s not that I hadn’t seen him shirtless - we’d all seen each other at least shirtless, and sometimes even naked, on the various occasions we’d gone swimming in Francis’ lake. But this was different. It was just the two of us, and the removal of clothing seemed less justified. 

Henry’s imposing frame seemed even more intimidating without his clothes on, all muscle under his taut skin. His body wasn’t athletic, exactly, but he was built like a weightlifter. 

Once everything was off, I hesitantly placed my palms on his shoulders. I stared at the rippling muscles of his back, as it was all I could do to avoid my jaw from dropping. He tensed up, and I felt him shiver. “Your hands,” he explained. “they’re cold.” 

I let out a breath that I hadn’t realised I was holding, and then gently squeezed his shoulders, just to gage how tense he was. Slowly, I kneaded my hands into his shoulder blades, moving them lower, working the knots in his muscles. Henry was the most tense person I’d ever touched, his entire body locked up as if in a constant state of fight or flight, whirring like a live wire. 

And my God, the noises slipping out of his mouth. Henry was generally quiet, only speaking if absolutely necessary, with a soft sigh every now and again, never one for drama or drawing attention to himself. But here, in the safety of his bedroom, he allowed soft sighs and moans to escape his slightly parted lips, and every sound did _something_ to me, sending something akin to arousal coursing through my veins. 

“ _My God_ ,” he said in Greek, leaning back into my touch. “You’re good at this.” 

What could I do? I certainly couldn’t stop - and I wasn’t sure I wanted to either. Plus, Henry seemed to be genuinely relaxed for the first time in months, and I could not bear to take that away from him. 

My hands went lower and lower, all the way to the small of his back, where I worked a particularly tight area, and _oh -_ Henry threw his head back, a broken gasp and high-pitched moan escaping his throat. I couldn’t take it anymore. This was the worst kind of torture, and for a moment, I understood Prometheus’ plight, forced to suffer dayly at the hands (well, beak) of the eagle - Henry was my eagle, and my resolve was my liver. 

My motivations seem clear now, as I’m recounting this, but had someone asked me about this incident after the fact (which, thankfully, nobody did), I would have gaped indignantly and scrambled together a messy excuse: hormones, stress, the alcohol. 

Plainly put, I was attracted to Henry, and it was undeniable. Of course, back then, I hadn’t been aware of my building feelings, so the moment I leaned forward to press my lips to Henry’s shoulder came as a shock to both of us. 

Immediately, Henry tensed up completely, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a small part of me reprimanded myself for having undone all my hard work. I stilled my hands and awaited a response with bated breath, lips still brushing against Henry’s skin. 

“Don’t stop,” he choked out. The command was low, sending blood to my groin. And yet, despite my obvious arousal, I kissed his shoulder delicately, as if he was made of porcelain, as if the slightest pressure would make him crack. I trailed my lips up his neck, up to his ear, and down to his jaw. 

Henry turned his head then, and his stormy blue eyes had a question in them, searching mine with both curiosity and the unmistakable darkness of arousal. I answered by closing my own and sealing the gap between us, one of my hands coming up to cradle his jaw and bring his face closer. His lips were soft against my chapped ones, which seemed surprising, and yet was quintessentially Henry - his softness. We broke apart and he leaned his forehead on mine, his own hand coming up to cover my own. 

At this distance, I could hardly focus on his eyes, my vision invaded by a blurry haze of blue. We didn’t need to say anything else - he leaned forward slightly, nudging our noses together, and I closed my eyes and pressed my lips against his in response. 

This time he was the one to close the distance between us. The kiss remained slow, but now Henry gently licked his way into my mouth, the taste of bourbon and cheap cigarettes assaulting my senses. I used my free hand to rub circles into his collarbones, down his chest, straying for a moment to roll a nipple between my fingers, eliciting a choked moan against my lips. My hand moved lower, down to his belt, and I paused. 

“Is this alright?” I asked quietly, breaking the kiss and looking down at Henry once more. He nodded, then brought our lips together again, both hands cradling the back of my neck, pulling me down, and I followed. Henry’s back hit the mattress and I moved to position myself between his legs. He drew his knees up, and we both groaned when our clothed erections pressed together. 

I pulled away to kiss the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck, and down his chest. 

“O - _Oh_ ,” Henry gasped as he realised, breathing quickened as he watched me with his ever-curious eyes. 

I could feel the anticipation building in the both of us as I undid his belt and unzipped his trousers. His breath hitched when I pressed a kiss right above the waistband of his boxers, and I smiled against his skin. I reached a hand into his underwear and pulled his stiff cock out, pumping it slowly. Henry’s soft moans of encouragement were music to my ears, only emboldening me. I looked up at him through my eyelashes, and once we made eye contact, I bent my head lower and took the tip of his cock into my mouth - a prayer, a sign of reverence. Henry was my God, and as such, deserved adoration, all my attention. 

I hadn’t done this before, but had had this done to me, and figured that I had paid enough attention during those times to somewhat know what I was meant to do. I licked up the side of his member, teasing him, swirling my tongue around the head, all without breaking eye contact. 

“Richard, please.” Henry pleaded, hands curling into the bedsheets. “I’m begging.” 

I wanted to tell him that _“Yes, anything, you deserve it-”_ but speaking was the last thing he wanted me to do. Instead, I took a deep breath, then slowly took as much of his cock as I could into my mouth. He _keened,_ a sound I’d never heard before, and revelled in that knowledge. I wondered idly if anyone else had ever had the honour of seeing him like this. His inexperience was made pretty clear then, when he bucked his hips up hard, pushing my gag reflex far beyond its limits. I pulled off with a harsh cough, face suddenly flushed and tears welling up in the corner of my eyes. 

“Jesus Richard, are you okay?” Henry asked, voice a mix of concern and alarm. He sat up, reaching an apologetic hand to cradle my face, using his thumb to wipe away my tears. “I’m sorry.”

I laughed it off. “It’s fine, really. Happens to the best of us.” I kissed the inside of his wrist, making sure he understood I wasn’t upset. It was all rather amusing. “Just - keep still.” 

I kneeled back down between his legs and tried again. I took less of his cock this time, and wrapped my arms around his legs, pressing his hips down into the mattress as best as I could. I felt him twitch, but he was propped up on his elbows, abdomen taut with the effort not to move. 

I bobbed my head up and down, slowly swallowing down as much as I could, my hand wrapping around what I couldn’t reach, which was quite a bit - I wasn’t sure if it was my inexperience or the fact that Henry’s member was rather proportionate to the rest of his, frankly quite large, body. 

As soon as his hand curled into my hair and he started emitting a series of short moans that kept rising in pitch, I knew this was almost over. 

“Richard, I’m going to — ” 

I pulled off then, looking up at Henry once more. He tenderly moved the hair out of my face. “I know.” 

I licked up the other side of his cock before swallowing him down once more, and that was his undoing, as he bucked his hips up once more and came down my throat, fingers tightening almost painfully in my hair, mouth open in a silent scream. 

I swallowed as much as I could, and gave the head of his cock a soft peck before rising to my knees with a sated smile. 

Henry looked up at me like he’d seen a saint, and opened his arms in invitation. “Richard, you magnificent creature.” I leaned down to kiss him, but he rose to meet me halfway, both of us on our knees, melting into one. Plato theorised that men were made with two pairs of legs and arms, and two heads, but were split into separate halves, forced to spend their years looking for their perfect match - and I hadn’t realised back then, but we were two halves that had found each other, and in that one singular kiss, we knew. 

“You haven’t —” Henry broke the kiss, running a hand down to my hip. 

“I already did when —” 

“Oh.” 

I hadn’t; but Henry looked so exhausted, I didn’t want to delay his sleep any further (although, I was stiff as a rock, and simply touching me would have made me orgasm). “I’m going to the bathroom, won’t be a moment.” I excused myself, kissing him once more before getting off the bed. 

Once in the bathroom, I reached down to touch myself, my other arm covering my mouth as I bit down on my sleeve so as to not make any noise. It was all over rather quickly, the scent of Henry still on my body, and the memory of our (intercourse? Love making? Sexual encounter?) was enough. 

After rinsing my mouth out and washing my face, I went back to the room, expecting to find the light off and Henry sound asleep. Instead, he’d kicked his trousers and underwear off, and was lying in bed with the sheets up to his torso, propped up on his elbow. 

“Uh - do you, um -” I started, anxious, though I did not know why. 

“Speak plainly,” Henry quirked an eyebrow. “ _Do I_ \- what?”

“Do you want me to stay?” I stared straight down at my feet, feeling my cheeks heat up. I didn’t want to go back to my room, back to being more alone than I’d ever felt, back to my unfinished Greek homework and Judy Poovey and everything that didn’t have curly hair and deep blue eyes and interests too niche to even be considered pretentious. 

“Yes.” Henry said quietly. “If you want to.” 

I sighed in relief, and looked up at Henry. He was smiling at me, a small, sated smile, and I smiled back.   
  


**II.**

Henry was upset. He wasn’t even angry, there wasn’t any sort of passionate fire raging behind his eyes, no surge of ire laced within his clenched muscles - he was simply upset, a choppy sea of convoluted emotions that even Poseidon would have thought exaggerated. 

We had all had dinner at Henry’s. Charles and Camilla brought some pasta, and Francis brought wine. I had provided a poor attempt at tiramisu (though everyone reassured me it was okay, I could not bring myself to believe them).

I closed the door after Francis, who had turned to me with a dramatic swirl of his black coat and muttered, “Look after him, will you?” 

I had nodded solemnly, unsure of why he’d asked me, specifically. I didn’t know if the rest were aware of the shift in our relationship - it hadn’t been very obvious (or at least, I hadn’t thought it was. We weren’t making out publicly or anything of the sort. There were small things, however: a brush of hands here and there, a whisper in the kitchen when no one was around to hear, eye contact for half a second longer). Regardless, I had already vowed to care for Henry long before Francis had asked me, and I intended to keep that promise.

I heard the clang of porcelain in the sink, and hurried to the kitchen, where Henry was aggressively washing up, borderline throwing dishes onto the drying rack. 

We’d all had a fight about something, God-knows-what. I can hardly remember what we’d fought about, all I could remember was a snide comment from Francis aimed at Charles and Charles’ incredibly rude reply. Henry and Camilla tried to stop them from arguing any further, but one thing had led to another, and soon enough they were yelling at each other like maniacs, waving fists and hurling insults. Henry had lost his temper then, and he was like an Old God from some long-forgotten ancient religion, voice booming, all his fury concentrated into the blinding white coldness of his voice, chilling our hearts to the core. All at once, just as sudden as they’d started, they stopped, frozen in place. 

Camilla and I had been the first to move, Camilla ushering Francis and Charles out of the house whilst I stroked Henry’s arm and tried to get him to relax, something akin to taming a rearing horse. 

I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe, clearing my throat. His head snapped towards me, distressed eyes meeting my own. I wordlessly raised an eyebrow, then looked towards the poor, suffering dishes and back at him, in a _w_ _hat-have-the-dishes-done-to-you_ sort of way. He narrowed his eyes back at me, then slammed another dish onto the rack. 

So that’s how it was going to be. 

I was planning on doing this anyway, but now I had more of a reason to. I dug into my passenger bag, an old leather one I used for my textbooks, and pulled out a vinyl. I knew Henry had a vinyl player somewhere in his living room, a gift from some distant relative, and I had wanted to borrow it ever since I first came upon it. 

I opened the top and put the vinyl disc inside, then softly pressed the needle on. For a moment all I could hear was faint static, and felt my spirits dampen somewhat - but then, sotly, music began emanating from the machine, the low hum of a cheesy 50’s song my mother would sing along to when my father wasn’t around (the disc was hers, after all - one of the few things I’d taken from home to remember her by). I turned the volume up, nodding my head along to the beat and its lullaby-like cadence. 

“Richard, do you hear that —” Henry said, walking into the living room. I turned to face him, a small smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. 

“May I ask the kind gentleman to a dance?” I said theatrically, bowing down and extending my hand, looking up at Henry through my lashes. 

“Richard, I really don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this isn’t a good time.” Henry’s fists clenched at his sides. I stepped forward, taking one of his fists and lifting it to my lips. I kissed each knuckle, and felt his hand relax in mine. 

“One dance. One. It’ll do you good.” I smiled warmly at him, grinning when he finally grumbled “I don’t even know how to dance,” under his breath before allowing me to pull him to the centre of the living room. 

I placed his hands on my waist, where they gripped me firmly. Perhaps too firmly. I didn’t say anything. I wrapped my arms around his neck. 

Although it wasn’t even dancing really, more like rhythmically swaying, Henry was still awful at it, stepping on my toes more than once (I’d say around seven or eight times, though he’d never admit it). “You’re not that bad at this, you know.” I said. He snorted. 

“Really, you’re not! This is still far better than my high school prom.” 

Henry then, in a surge of confidence, took me by the hand and clumsily tried spinning me round, pulling me back in and roughly trying to dip me down. I flailed, head spinning, and latched onto his shoulders with an iron grip, letting out an undignified yelp. 

“Too much?” Henry asked, panting, apologetic smile on his face. 

“Yeah.” I replied, eyes still trying to adjust to the sudden in position. 

He lifted me back up slowly, and God, what I saw in his eyes then I hadn’t seen before. Adoration. Sure, he’d looked at certain books in a similar fashion, and at Camilla when she recited her Greek in that way that would have made the Muses stop and stare. But it wasn’t like this. This was intense, intimate, and in the swirling sea of his eyes I drowned. 

I closed the gap between us because I could not bare to have him staring at me like that, like his eyes weren’t meant for mine, the same existential fear astronauts feel when staring into space: vast, infinite, so infinite you can’t comprehend its endlessness. He looked at me in a forbidden way, like he wanted to devour me whole, like he wanted to merge his soul with mine - I had touched his divinity and the burn had seared into my bones. 

We kissed, and kissed, and kissed. I pulled him as close to me as possible, and his hands roamed over me, my hips, my torso, my back, my thighs. He picked me up and I let him, legs wrapped around his hips, hands tangled in his soft curls. 

We fucked there, on the floor of his living room. We hadn’t even taken all our clothes off, shirts still hanging off our elbows. I straddled his hips and sunk down on his cock, his mouth swallowing my gasp at the dull ache and blunt pleasure. I rode him to the best of my ability, but I was new at this and my thighs soon showed signs of giving way. Henry rolled us over without pulling out, pushing me onto my back and picking up at a breakneck pace, pistoning into me like our lives depended on it. It was too fast and too much but I took it all eagerly, hands fisting into his shirt, ankles crossed at the small of his back. 

“Henry,” I whined, biting my lip to hold back my moaning as he abused my prostate. “Henry, Henry _please -_ ” 

“Richard,” he replied, teeth sinking into the crook of my neck, lips bruising my collarbone. He sounded as undone as I was, hands gripping my hips so hard I knew they’d bruise. 

“ _Henry, fuck -”_ I came untouched, sobbing into the sweat-slicked skin of his neck. 

He didn’t stop - if anything, he went faster - chasing his own pleasure. I was over sensitive and my body ached, but I let him, allowed myself to become the vessel for his emotions, and accepted it all, letting out soft, high-pitched gasps in time with his near-violent thrusts. I kissed the side of his head then, gently, and that seemed to be his detonator. He made a feral sound I’d never heard anyone make before, something between a grunt, a groan, and a moan, a beast claiming its prey, and came inside me, still thrusting as he did. 

We lied there, on the floor, ruined clothes off, staring at his white ceiling. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his trousers and offered me one. 

“That was -” I started, but couldn’t finish. What would I call what we’d just done? It was more than fucking, more meaningful than love-making, something akin to a religious experience, and giving it a name would only take away from its sanctity. 

“Yes.” Henry agreed. “It was.” 

After a moment of silence, I looked up at him with a quirked eyebrow. “I never thought we would.” 

“Why?” Henry turned to face me, curious. 

I looked away then, somewhat embarrassed by my own thoughts. I took a drag of the cigarette. “The Greeks looked down on - uh - the more carnal aspects of male relationships. This part, anyway. I thought that maybe you lived by the same, uh, moral code or something.” I realised how ridiculous I sounded as the words came tumbling out of my mouth, but couldn’t help myself. 

Henry laughed then, out loud, a proper laugh, something I hadn’t heard in so long, and it filled my heart with song. 

“Oh Richard,” he said, still chuckling. “The Greeks weren’t right about everything, you know.”

**+I.**

I tried putting the keys in the keyhole as fast as possible, but my fumbling hands were no good, and the alcohol surely didn’t help. 

“Let me try,” said Henry. I gave him the keys, then proceeded to use my free hands to cup his ass firmly, snorting at the way he tensed up. 

“Richard, what are you doing?” Henry asked, giggling. He never giggled. 

“I’m impatient.” I whispered into his ear, licking around the outside of it, then biting softly on the earlobe. I didn’t know where my sudden confidence came from. 

As soon as the door was shut behind us, Henry had me pinned up against it, arms held above my head as he kissed me passionately, violently, licking his way into my mouth and biting my bottom lip. I moaned, pushing my hips up to meet Henry’s, needing to be as physically close to him as possible. He pulled away to suck bruises into my neck and collarbones, then dropped to his knees, releasing my wrists.

“What’s this all about?” I asked, feeling light-headed, cold air rushing to fill Henry’s vacuum and chilling my flaming cheeks. 

“Recompense.” Henry fumbled with my belt, drunken hands now clumsier than usual. 

I laughed. “What on earth for?” 

Henry finally managed to get my pants down and my underwear with them. He stared up at me, and solemnly said “Everything,” a moment of clarity piercing through our drunken stupor. I was almost taken aback by the sudden bright glint in his eyes, but just like that it was gone. 

When he took me down straight to the root I gasped like I’d been shot. The room stopped spinning as my consciousness narrowed down to the warm pressure around my cock and the curls between my fingers. Henry pulled his head back and bobbed it back down again, soft whines falling from my lips. Trust Henry to be brilliant at something even if he’d never done it before. 

One of the hands pinning my hips to the door snaked around them, slowly reaching down lower, and then I understood. 

I was then caught between two burning embers of pleasure - Henry’s mouth on my cock at a slow but steady pace, his eyes meeting mine every now and then to make sure he was doing everything right (though I suspect he knew all along, the cheeky bastard); and his fingers working wonders inside me, barely even moving as I rocked my hips of my own accord, making their mark every time. 

“Henry, I - I won’t -” I stuttered, hands tightening into Henry’s hair, dangerously close to start moving him myself. “I can’t last long.” 

Henry didn’t even bother replying, instead sucking harder, bobbing his head faster, curling his fingers and spreading them within me. I could never find fitting words to explain my orgasm without it sounding exaggerated (though the copious amounts of whisky in my system might have something to do with that). I made a noise akin to a sob, pleasure thrumming within me like divine electricity, a thunderous storm that rattled my windows and shook me to my core. 

Henry rose from the floor. His hands rose to cradle my face, thumbs wiping away my tears. I looked up at him through glassy eyes, alcohol haze long gone from my mind, and took a shaky breath. 

“I know.” Henry said, and I did not know what to respond. Of course he knew. He knew everything. 

He kissed me slowly, a kiss unlike any other, so full of meaning I was almost taken aback. Henry Winter was never the most prone to displays of any kind of affection, and the sheer amount in this singular press of lips overwhelmed me. It felt like trying to hold a storm within our palms. 

When we broke the kiss, we barely separated. “I know,” a ragged whisper, having finally found my voice. “I know too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> this book is so good. i was sad when it was over - i never wanted it to end.


End file.
